Home of threads
It is often said that a home is not made of bricks and cement, but of people—your people. After four years of marriage, I finally understand what that truly means. Because my mother—my Mama—is my home. Today, while cleaning my sister’s bed, I found one of her sarees tucked away in a corner. I picked it up casually, but the moment I held it, something shifted. There it was—a familiar scent, still wrapped in its threads. A warmth, a love, so real that it pulled me back almost 25 years in an instant. I never imagined something so small could hold such a deep place in my heart. Growing up, I never really understood who she was. To me, she was just always there. But today, I see her differently—not just as a woman draped in a saree, but as my pillar of strength, my quiet protector, the one who could take away all my worries and pain with just a few words, even through a simple video call. I also remember how she would tie little knots at the edge of her saree—small, almost unnot...